


Repercussions

by profangirlintoomanyfandoms



Category: The Avengers (Marvel) - All Media Types
Genre: Angst, Divorce, Everyone Needs A Hug, Hurt Peter Parker, Hurt Tony Stark, M/M, Tony Stark Needs a Hug
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-04-21
Updated: 2018-08-18
Packaged: 2018-10-22 01:24:17
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 7
Words: 15,868
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10686897
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/profangirlintoomanyfandoms/pseuds/profangirlintoomanyfandoms
Summary: Steve and Tony have divorced, and they’re spending their time away from each other. Peter lives with Tony during the weekdays, and goes over to Steve’s during the weekends. Tony’s all depressed and is relying on drink, and Peter’s super worried about him and blames Steve for Tony's relapse. Steve’s going out with Bucky now, and Peter hates this, even though Bucky’s trying his best.





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Hi so this is my first fanfic ever, so please tell me what you think about it in the comments :) Also, this is based off a one-shot prompt I found on Tumblr, but I can't remember which post I got the idea from, but I'll definitely put it here if I find it.

Unlike the average high schooler, Peter hated Saturdays and Sundays. Well, he didn’t _hate_ it, per say. Not really. It was just…he _deeply disliked_ Saturdays and Sundays. Because Saturdays and Sundays meant going over to Pop’s and that meant two days of awkward breakfasts and lunches and dinners and Pop’s boyfriend trying to make friendly conversation and him avoiding both of them at any cost. He knew it wasn’t fair to him — James Barnes, apparently. And he wasn’t that bad, he supposed. He was cool with Peter hanging around, and he had this admittedly cool tattoo of a star on his left arm, but…he wasn’t Dad. And that was enough for Peter to hate his very existence.

Which left Pop. Who, Peter knew, was trying really hard to bring the two together. He kept telling Peter just how awesome James — who Pop called _Bucky_ , which made Peter want to throw up — was, because he’d served in the military, and after his honorable dispatch, he’d gone into music, and played the guitar and drums and so much more.

 _What about Dad?_ Peter wanted to scream at him. _Dad’s the best fucking scientist slash engineer slash businessman in the entire world! He’s Tony Stark! And you think some hipster musician is better than him? Than Dad?_

But he kept silent. Because it wasn’t James’ fault — not really — it was Pop’s, but he was _Pop,_ so Peter couldn’t hate him, not really.

But he still hated it. Hated every Saturday and Sunday. He’d tried pleading with Dad. He’d asked if he could spend every day with him. But Dad, to his surprise, had refused.

“Come on, Pete,” he’d said. He was in his workshop, working on an improvement to the latest StarkPhone. That was Dad. Always working, always improving. Always thinking it wasn’t good enough. “You know that won’t work.”

He knew, but that didn’t mean he _accepted_ it.

“But _why_?” Peter knew he sounded whiney, but he didn’t care. He didn’t want to go, to their stupid apartment in Brooklyn where there was only one spare bedroom for Peter because they were _sleeping together_ and fuck them, fuck them, fuck them.

Tony sighed, and looked away from his screen. “You know he’ll want to see you.”

He. Dad used to call Pop Steve. Or honey. Or sweetie. Peter remembered how that had absolutely disgusted him. He was nine, then. He didn’t know better.

“But —”

“Peter.”

He knew that tone. It meant the end of an argument. He conceded, but not willingly. He faced every Saturday and Sunday with overblown grimness, like he was preparing for war. And he pointedly only brought a small duffel bag, with only a change of clothes and his toothbrush, just to show Dad he was coming home, no matter what. He wasn’t stupid. He knew his dad was secretly afraid he’d change his mind, that he’d see how Pop was better than him, and that he’d want to stay at Pop’s forever.

That wasn’t going to happen. Not ever.

And it was just another Saturday when Peter dragged himself up the stairs to Pop’s shared apartment. He absolutely dreaded ringing the doorbell. James would always answer the door, and it was all Peter could do to stop himself from punching him in the face.

But he did it anyway. He rang the doorbell.

James opened the door.

He smiled. “Peter! You’re early.”

“Yeah.”

The day Pop and Dad had divorced, Peter had promised himself one thing: he’d only respond to Pop with one-syllable words whenever possible. It wasn’t the best possible punishment, but it’d have to do. He wanted Pop to hurt. Hurt like Dad did. Because Pop didn’t see what he did to Dad. He didn’t see Dad sobbing into his seventh glass of scotch at three in the morning. And he wasn’t there to silently help him back into bed, and he wasn’t there to tell him it was okay, when no, it wasn’t, nothing was okay. He wasn’t there to pick up the pieces. It wasn’t the best punishment, no, but it would have to do.

James’ smile faded a little, and Peter felt a small pang of worthless, idiotic victory.

“Well, come in,” he said, smiling again. “We’re baking a pie.”

Baking. They used to bake together. Because the only domestic thing Dad ever did was baking, because he liked the science of it, and Pop just generally liked to bake and eat pies, so they always baked on Saturday. Saturday was Baking Day.

So he was taking that away too.

Peter slipped in and looked around. It looked the same as it always did: a small but cozy apartment, with a comfy sofa and warm lights and a sturdy fire escape, because Pop always said _safety first_. Peter hated it. He was hit by the strong smell of cinnamon and apples, and turned towards the kitchen. Technically, it wasn't a kitchen, because nothing separated the kitchen from the living room, but hey. Pop was there, rolling out the dough, and the apples were in a pan, bubbling away in butter and cinnamon and nutmeg. It smelled amazing, and so heartbreakingly of the old times that Peter almost started crying.

Almost.

Pop turned.

“Petey!” He cracked a small smile.

That was one good thing about weekends. Pop used to hug him every day after school, the second he stepped in the door. He’d stopped doing that now. He seemed to realize he’d lost his right to.

“Hi.” Peter said.

Then he walked away from the kitchen, away from the stupid apple pie-making and stupid Pop and stupid James, and locked himself in his room. He put on his headphones and got out his homework and tried to lose himself in the absolute mind-numbing boredom that was physics and chemistry and biology and maths. (He was in Honors for all those classes, and it was still way too easy for him. Like solving addition problems.) And it almost worked. It worked all the way up till lunch, when Pop opened his door (without knocking) and told him in an annoyingly gentle voice that it was time for lunch, and that they were having casserole.

Peter went into the living room. The table was already set, and a steaming bowl of casserole in the middle, along with mashed potatoes and garlic bread. He plopped himself down on one of the chairs. James sat opposite him, knowing better than to push his luck by sitting next to him. He’d have preferred not having to see his face at all, but it was a small table.

“Well, bon appétit,” James said.

Peter speared a forkful of casserole and shoved it in his mouth, desperate to get this over with. He hated mealtimes. It was awkward and downright hateful when Pop got to talking about James.

Speaking of.

“So Peter,” said Pop. “Have you finished your homework yet?”

_Yes, Pop, because what else could I do in those two hours I was in my room and you and James here were busy making stupid apple pies._

“Yeah,” Peter said. He shoved a gigantic forkful of casserole in his mouth, just to avoid another few seconds of small talk.

No go.

Pop pushed on. “So Peter. Did you know Bucky writes songs? I’m sure he’ll be glad to play a few for you later.”

He nearly gagged. James playing songs for him. He’d quite literally rather eat cat shit.

“S’okay.”

“Oh come on, Peter,” Pop said. “Buck’s a very talented musician. He can play the guitar, and the drums, and the piano, and a whole lot of other stuff. He can teach you.”

“Sure,” James chimed in. “I can give you some lessons, if you want.”

_Okay. That did it._

“Yeah, and I’m sure Dad can give him some lessons about science and technology and running a global business, _if he wants_.”

“ _Peter_ ,” Pop said. His voice dropped one octave. He knew what that meant. It meant _shut up now_. And Peter thought how long he’d been waiting for this conversation. Like he knew Peter was going to blow his top one day, and he’d wanted to be prepared for it. Well, he didn’t want to be one to disappoint.

“What? Am I not allowed to mention Dad? Is it a swear word now? Oh, do you want me to put a nickel in the Swear Jar? Oh wait, that was back home, back when I was ten. Y’know, before you went and _fucked everything up_.”

“Peter.” Pop growled.

“Steve, calm down,” James said. “Peter, I know you’re very angry, and you have every right to be.” He was so collected, and his speech sounded so rehearsed Peter seriously considered actually punching him. “I understand this is a big change for you, and you haven’t adapted to it yet, and maybe you won’t, ever. I’m not asking you to. But please, let’s keep talking about stuff we don’t want to to a minimum, okay?”

That was it.

“ _Stuff we don’t want to talk about?_ No, I want to talk about this. It’s you who doesn’t want to talk about this. You think just because you don’t talk about it that it magically goes away? Well, guess what, it doesn’t. You two sweep everything under the rug and think that everything’s alright when everything isn’t, everything is so _wrong_. Do you know Dad still keeps your room there for you, with your stupid US posters and your stupid military outfit, hoping you’ll come back one day? And how he didn’t delete your number, not like how you deleted his? And do you know how he’s drinking again? That more often than not, I find him in the kitchen so conked out he’s crying and I know he hates it when I see him like that, but he can’t help it and I hate that, I _hate_ it, and you don’t _know_ , and what’s worse, _you don’t care_. So while you and your dear _Bucky_ over here are loving it up in La La Land, Dad’s getting worse and worse and he tries to pretend like he’s not in front of me, but we both know he’s relapsing, and don’t you care, _how can you not care_? And you know what? You don’t care, and you _dare_ act like one big happy family in front of me, and guess what? _Fuck_ you. Fuck _both_ of you.”

Peter was breathing heavily, like he’d just run a marathon. He glanced at both of them. James had suddenly developed a keen interest in his plate of casserole. But not Pop. Pop was staring him down. And he was _pissed_.

“Peter,” Pop said slowly. “Pack your bags. I’m taking you home.”

He reeled. _What?_

“You’re — you’re _kicking me out_?”

Pop narrowed his eyes. “Since you obviously can’t deal with things like an adult, yes. I’m taking you back.”

“You’re kicking me out.”

“No. I’m pulling rank. You can come back when you can talk things over with us _like a proper adult_.”

The shock from Pop’s previous statement disappeared. Anger filled its place — hot, bubbling anger.

“ _Like an adult_? You mean like you two?”

Peter looked at Pop — who was outright glaring at him now, hands clenching the side of the table, and James, who was still determinedly avoiding eye contact.

A scoff escaped Peter’s mouth.

“If you were actually an adult, you’d come back with me. Talk things over with Dad. Not just leave. Because that’s not what parents do. They don’t leave. They don’t disappear. They don’t up and go and leave others wondering what they did wrong. Shit, that’s not what _people_ do.”

Peter stood up. He felt weirdly weightless, and the single light hanging over the table made everything glow yellow and made him dizzy, but he knew one thing. He wasn’t staying.

“I’m going,” he said. Quietly.

They watched his sentence land in the middle of the table. Right in the middle of the casserole.

He didn’t wait for an answer.

Peter walked out.

There were no tears. Maybe he was just too angry — or too tired — for tears.

He stayed outside for a bit, waiting outside the door. He thought maybe — just maybe — Pop would come after him. Maybe he’d care enough. Maybe he’d care that he only had three bucks in his pocket, that he’d left pretty much everything in the spare bedroom, including his phone, that there was no way he could make it back to Manhattan tonight.

He didn’t. There was only Peter, the hallway, and the darkening night.

So Peter hitched a ride to New York and had to walk fifty miles or so back to Stark Tower. And Dad knew about it — of course he’d call him up — but they both pretended like it never happened. Dad wasn’t even mad. He just patted him on the back, asked him if he was hungry — he wasn’t — and bundled him up to bed.

He got his stuff back — in the form of a mailed box containing a letter that Peter threw away. But it wasn’t all bad. Dad stopped drinking. Well, at least he drank a bit less now. Aunt Pepper didn’t look so worried all the time, because Dad started showing up for business meetings again. And Peter went to Midtown High and didn’t go over on Saturdays and Sundays and wondered how they could still go on, when everything and everyone was still so broken.


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hi guys, so I decided to continue this fic (after a lot of indecision and procrastinating), and I'm sorry because this chapter is really filler as fuck, but I've got some idea as to where I can go from this.

_Pete, I know you’re at school, but guess what? I had this brilliant idea. You know how we don’t have a bathroom upstairs? Well, your room is right over the bathroom downstairs. We could put in a trapdoor. Or a ladder — the type that can fold up when you don’t need it. Isn’t this great? Text me back when you read this. [14:05]_

_Pete! Not a ladder — a fireman’s pole! Well, you’d still have to walk up back to your room, but still — a fireman’s pole. I mean, obviously I’d have to get a pole… [14:07]_

——————

_Dad? Text me back. [14:59]_

_Dad? Call me, okay? [15:00]_

_Dad, it’s Peter. I’m on my way home. Five minutes. [15:00]_

——————

He’d run the half-mile back to Stark Tower from the subway, not even bothering to stop and say hello to the nice lady who ran the shawarma place a few blocks away. He could feel his heart pounding against his chest. Peter felt like hitting himself. He’d turned his phone off during Biology, and he’d missed the texts. He’d missed the alarm warnings. And fuck, if he’d known then, he could’ve ran home the instant he got the message and stopped it. Stopped whatever madness Dad was up to now.

Fireman pole in the bathroom.

Fuck fuck _fuck_.

His heart started beating faster. He rounded the corner, picking up speed and cursing louder every second.

Still, when he got home, the lights were on in the lobby, and he felt a surge of optimism. Okay, it didn’t make it to the lobby this time.

It.

He made his way upstairs, trying to get his heart rate back to normal. The dining room was dark. So was the kitchen. And the stairs leading down to the workshop. His heart nearly stopped.

“Dad?” He called gingerly. His voice echoed throughout the pitch-black house.

No response.

Please don’t let it be the vodka. Let it be wine or beer or hell, even whiskey. Anything but the vodka.

He ran downstairs to the workshop, taking the stairs two at a time.

It was in its usual state of haphazardness — papers littering every surface, machine parts overflowing in boxes, half-finished projects lying on the floor. And — thank God — Dad was there, sitting cross-legged on the floor amidst a mass of papers, chewing on a Sharpie. The lights were off, but the computer screens were on, casting an eerie glow all around the room.

But the first thing that caught Peter’s attention were the empty beer bottles on the table. Three.

Thank God it wasn’t the vodka.

Dad didn’t look up, even though he was facing Peter.

“I’m home, Dad,” Peter said, softly.

His head jerked up. It took a moment before his eyes found Peter’s and formed some kind of recognition. He blinked once, then managed a feeble smile.

“Hey Petey,” he said. He sounded tired. Sleep-deprived tired, not high-on-alcohol tired.

A crushing moment of relief.

“Bed?” Peter asked. He had definitely gotten up and pulled another all-nighter, despite Peter having gone downstairs to check last night.

Tony looked around, as if realizing for the first time where he was.

“Bed,” he agreed.

Peter watched him go back up, careful not to help him directly. He knew Dad hated it when he tried to help, even in his Stark Industries-induced fog.

Once he’d made sure Dad was actually sleeping (he didn’t need much urging this time around; he’d fallen asleep as soon as he’d hit the mattress), Peter went back downstairs and surveyed the damage. There were notes everywhere: on the floor, on the table, on the walls, like the ideas were exploding out of him. But at least the ideas were still organized. Still written on paper, in the workshop. Not scrawled in Morse code on the dining table. Not on the bathroom mirror in toothpaste. The sight of the notes gave him a small sense of comfort.

A little crazy — organized chaos — was good. A little crazy got him inspired and kept the ideas coming in and paid the bills.

But still…

Peter looked at the empty beer bottles. He sighed.

_Where was the stupid dustpan when you needed it?_

——————

It was a Saturday, and Peter was at home. _Home_ home — Stark Tower. Which was good, because that meant he could actually focus on his homework and go out of his room whenever he liked and play his music with the volume turned way up and not worry about annoying anyone (Dad’s workshop was soundproof) and most importantly, he wouldn’t have to face Pop and James at mealtimes.

But this was not good because he was giving himself a heart attack as to whether or not the phone would ring, if Pop would actually call.

Pop had become annoyingly persistent these past couple weeks. He’d adopted an annoying habit of writing letters (seriously, _letters_ ) every single week to somebody called Peter — every Saturday, like clockwork — and despite the total absence of a reply, the letters kept coming. And Peter was just thankful that he was always in charge to getting the mail (he was the only one who remembered), and that JARVIS was clever enough to keep his mouth shut about this, because Dad didn’t need this right now. Especially since he was getting better. Well, better by his standards. Beer, not vodka. So he made sure to go straight to the trash — his trashcan, in his room — and bury it beneath week-old science magazines and empty cans of Coke.

But Pop had sent him a text earlier this week (on Sunday, after the usual letter came in and after Peter had chucked it), threatening him that if he didn’t reply, he would call. What for, Peter didn’t know.

But still.

He would call.

 _It was stupid_ , he told himself. _He was just messing with you, trying to get you to write back. He wouldn’t call. He didn’t even bother to follow you, to make sure you were okay._

But he couldn’t stop staring at his phone every once in a while. Even his physics homework didn’t provide the distraction it should have.

 _But still_ , said a little voice in the back of his head. _He said he would call. And shouldn’t he call? Just to say hi. Because you’re his kid, you’re his_ kid _. Doesn’t matter why, he would call._

Peter told it to shut up.

_He wouldn’t call._

Peter turned blankly back to his work. He had given into the inevitable — Pop wouldn’t call…so he nearly went into cardiac arrest when the landline started ringing.

 _Fuck. Fuck he wouldn't — not the fucking_ landline _..._

He nearly tripped over himself running down the stairs to the house phone. It took him a while to find it; nobody ever called their landline, he’d forgotten where it was.

But thank God he picked it up first. Dad didn’t need this, not now, not when he was trying to get better…

He pressed the “answer” button without looking at the caller ID.

“Hello?” Peter said, not bothering to mask the spite in his voice.

“Peter?”

It wasn’t Pop. And Peter hated himself for feeling the pit of sinking disappointment in his stomach.

“Peter?” The voice repeated.

It was Aunt Pepper, which was a surprise in itself. Aunt Pepper only ever came over during the holidays, because, according to her, she was busy enough “running the world’s largest conglomerate”. Which, to be honest, was fair enough. But she was cool — seriously, cool; she always bought Peter awesome gifts at Christmas — one year, it had been these really nice T-shirts with science jokes on them, and the next, an honest-to-God chemistry set (a proper one, with its own burner and test tubes and all). She was the few people outside of their family Peter looked up to (and had to look up to; she was fucking tall, even without her four-inch heels).

“Oh. Hi Aunt Pepper. Yeah, it’s me.”

“I _know_ it’s you.” Even over the phone, Aunt Pepper managed to sound bossy/exasperated. He liked that about her. “Tony’s changed the password and I can’t get in.”

“Oh, right.” Actually, Peter had been the one to change the password. He’d changed it way back when Pop left. He didn’t want Pop thinking he could just waltz back into Stark Tower whenever he liked; that wasn’t an option anymore.

“Okay hang on, I’ll ring you in.”

“Good.”

He rang Aunt Pepper in.

She strode in to the living room, in her usual whirlwind of red hair and stilettos and self-confidence. That was the most amazing thing about her, Peter thought: she demanded everyone’s attention simply by walking into a room. You weren’t allowed to ignore her.

Her face lit up when she saw Peter.

“Hey kid,” she said, drawing him into a hug before he even knew what was happening. Not that he really minded.

She smelled of Chanel No. 5.

“Hi Aunt Pepper,” Peter said.

She smiled at him and ruffled his hair. “I need to talk to your dad.” She said, snapping back to her usual businesslike attitude. She looked around the empty living room, as if she was expecting Dad to materialize out of a cupboard.

Peter froze.

Shit.

Not now not now not _now_.

“Um…what about?” Peter asked, trying to sound offhand. She couldn’t know how bad it was; she had enough on her shoulders.

Aunt Pepper looked at him like he had grown antlers. “What do you think, kiddo? Stark Industries.” She sighed. “Revenue’s dropped 15%. Lowest record so far, goddamnit. The board’s in uproar. They want to…well, let’s just say it’s not good, kid.”

She sighed — then stopped, and narrowed her eyes. “And you don’t need to know about this. Go on upstairs, do your homework.”

“I’ve already _done_ all my homework. What do you take me for?”

It was a last-ditch attempt to distract her.

It failed miserably.

Aunt Pepper was already _clack-clack-clack_ -ing down to the workshop. And Peter knew there was no stopping her; she was on the warpath. “Last I saw you, I don’t remember you were this snarky. Respect your elders, kid, we pay the bills.”

“You can’t!” Peter shouted, despite himself. She stopped mid-step (which was pretty impressive, considering the four-inch heels she was wearing).

“Peter,” she said softly. Her voice was butter. Melting. “Is it…?”

Peter couldn’t bring himself to nod. He couldn’t even bring himself to look at her, he knew how she’d look: too sad and too tired.

Aunt Pepper knew. She always knew.

She looked at the workshop, then back again at Peter. She closed her eyes, and stalked back upstairs. He loved her for that.

“I’ll do damage control. The board won’t do anything drastic without his approval…or mine.”

Peter nodded, and felt tears brimming. He hated himself for crying.

“Oh _sweetie_.” Aunt Pepper hardly ever called him sweetie. _Sweetie_ was for emergencies.

He felt arms close in around him, and he heard Aunt Pepper sniff.

God fucking damn it they were all three such a mess.

“Your dad —,” he heard Aunt Pepper say. He heard her sigh, could feel it in her chest. He didn't look up; the expression on her face might have killed him.

“He’s a whirlwind. It’s so hard to keep up with him. And he’s so _smart_. Too smart, sometimes. Like trying to keep up with a car going eighty by walking.”

Peter bit his lip.

“But he’s a good person, underneath all that armor he puts up.”

A sniff. Two heartbeats.

“It’s just that…life has a way of breaking people, even the best of them.”

He let the tears fall.


	3. Chapter 3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So I actually stopped procrastinating and updated. And just a heads-up, this story will probably only take one or two more chapters before I wrap it up, but if you guys are interested in following Peter's life, as in what he gets up to in Midtown High, and to sort of have the Stony drama in the background, I can expand this story way more, because I have a few ideas on what to write, but I'm still thinking about it. Let me know in the comments below! This chapter was inspired by Fangirl by Rainbow Rowell (which is an amazing story so check it out!)

Aunt Pepper called the next day. (At goddamn seven in the morning. On a _Sunday_.) Even over the phone, her voice was drizzled honey. And still too loud in the early morning air. Apparently the board had softened up, and she had it under control. He didn’t believe her for a second, and she knew it. But he’d said “okay” and “thanks Aunt Pepper” at the right times, as a sort of unspoken acknowledgement.

Thanks Aunt Pepper.

She’d hesitated for a second right before hanging up, like she wanted to say more, but then she said “bye” and hung up.

And apparently Dad wasn’t going to meetings anymore. Aunt Pepper had accidentally let slip that his absence was causing serious staff upheaval — particularly the staunch Stark supporters, who’d stuck with him throughout the Stane days and…well, everything else. Only a small fraction of his team remained; she was only around because she was clever enough to keep her head down and choose her battles. And because the board knew how damaging firing Aunt Pepper would be, Peter thought. She practically _was_ the company.

Peter went downstairs slowly, feeling the sleepiness more than ever…and found Dad in the kitchen, half-eaten apple in one hand, tying his Windsor with the other.

At seven fifteen in the morning. On a Sunday.

_What in the name of actual fuck?_

“Morning, Pete,” Dad said, not looking up from his tie (which was slowly and stubbornly becoming looser).

“Hey, Dad.” Peter said carefully. It was one of those minefield situations: say something wrong and you’d set the craziness off.

Peter gauged his color — took his mental temperature. And he looked _good_ ; a little crazed, yes, but the good kind: the kind that got the board members fired up and made them hang on to his every word. The kind that convinced them the genius inside him was worth dealing with the total train-wreck he was.

He had even taken the time to clean up and throw on a suit.

He caught Peter staring at him when he poured himself a cup of coffee (black, no milk, no sugar; Peter would never understand), and he smiled and said, “Got some new ideas for the company. I think the board’s gonna like it.”

“Besides, it’s my name on the company; I gotta show up from time to time. Gotta go, kid. Make yourself breakfast, okay?”

Peter’s heart leapt. Dad had never gone back to work willingly before. And much certainly never at 7:15 on a Sunday. Was he…was he actually getting better? Was he _back_?

Dad stopped short at the door. “Wait. On second thought, don’t make yourself breakfast. I trust you kid, but I don’t trust you won’t burn the kitchen down. I paid good money for that countertop. And that sink.”

Peter promised he wouldn’t make himself breakfast and wouldn’t burn the kitchen down and wouldn’t ruin the countertop or the sink.

It was going to be a good Sunday, to say the least. Four hours of the new Alt-J album. Pizza for breakfast and Chinese takeout for lunch. And more importantly, Dad was looking better than ever, and Pop had given up on texting him. No texts since last Saturday. The letters were still coming, but that was easily dealt with.

Peter flopped back on his bed. The happy little knot that had formed since Dad had gotten up and gone back to work was still there. And he felt like breaking into a grin every five minutes.

_Jesus._

He climbed into bed. He’d never felt so relaxed before, not since Dad left. No texts…Dad at work… Peter smiled, and closed his eyes. Maybe he’d take a short nap, then he could go over to get shawarma, and maybe call Ned about that science project they had…And before he knew it, his eyes were closing, and he was drifting —

And he was waking up to the sound of his phone ringing. And Peter hated that in even in the confused haziness of half-wakefulness, his immediate thought was _Pop._

No. That door was closed.

He fumbled for his phone.

It was _Dad_. His heart nearly stopped. Dad _never_ called. He pressed _Accept_.

“Hello?”

“Peter?” It was a male, and Peter didn’t recognize the voice. His heart had somehow made it into his stomach. “It’s Justin. Justin Hammer.”

Peter knew about Hammer. Dad called him Fucking Hammer. He was the head of HammerTech, and — despite Dad’s protestations — Stark Industries had partnered with them to produce a whole new branch. The partnership had led to three whole nights of rants…but they were good rants: Dad was _mad_ mad, not drunk mad — of shouting and swearing and saying, “Jesus Pete, it’s Fucking Hammer; they could’ve partnered with anybody they wanted and they chose _Fucking Hammer_. Fuck it’s like they’re _trying_ to make me go insane.”

And there was no reason for Fucking Hammer to be picking up Dad’s phone.

“Um. Hello,” he said, carefully.

“It’s your dad,” Fucking Hammer said softly. Even his voice sounded weaselly. That was what his dad had called him: a fucking weasel. “Looks like a weasel, acts like a weasel, the fucking _prick_ ,” he’d swore. Dad never had a problem with Peter swearing. Mostly because Peter didn’t, and mostly because Tony swore like a sailor himself.

Oh God. Had he punched him in the face and called him Fucking Hammer? Called him a weasel? Punched _everyone_ in the face? Climbed up on the table and called them all fucking losers for bending over for the markets, for not caring about the actual science? Had they needed to bring in the tranquilizers?

Fuck. Fucking _hell_.

Fucking Hammer pushed on. “He…well, he’s under a lot of stress, we all know that. But he’s okay now.”

“Where is he?” His voice broke a little, and Peter hated himself for that. For showing weakness. (Especially in front of Fucking Hammer; he knew where his loyalties lay, and Hammer was Enemy No 2, right behind Pop.)

“St Magdalene’s. He’s fine. They had to bring him down quick, but he’s sleeping now. Don’t worry.”

Peter nearly laughed. _Don’t worry?_ His dad broke down at work. And he probably left a blazing trail behind him as he went. What was there to do _but_ worry?

“He’s probably drugged into oblivion right now, so the best thing for you to do now is stay home and rest for a bit.”

Peter understood why Dad called him Fucking Hammer.

“Bye, Hammer.” Peter said. He ended the call.

Fuck him. He was going.

His heart was going fifty miles an hour. St Magdalene’s…He’d never heard of the name before. But it had to be in New York, right? It had to be somewhere close —

Another call came in. It was Aunt Pepper. He barely had time to say hello before she said, “You’ve heard, right? From Fucking Hammer.” She sounded disgusted, like even saying the name tainted her. And that was so typical of Aunt Pepper, so heartbreakingly _normal_ that it calmed Peter a little. Something grounded in the midst of chaos.

“Yeah, he called.”

“That goddamned fucker. Sorry Peter, but why he would think _him_ calling _you_ was any — Okay, I’m turning the corner. I’ll be there in three. Then we’re off to the hospital. Pack your bags — change of clothes, toothbrush, phone, charger, wallet. Got it?”

Peter felt like breaking down himself. Thank God for Aunt Pepper.

“Thank you,” he choked out.

“Don’t be ridiculous,” she said. But there was a hoarse sound in her voice. It’d lost its usual steel. She’d been crying too.

She hung up first.

He didn’t bring a change of clothes. Or a toothbrush or a charger. He didn’t bring anything, just his wallet and phone, which he already had with him.

Peter ran down the stairs and waited in the lobby. He felt oddly weightless. Like his feet were the only thing holding him down to the ground, and at any second, he’d fall into himself. His stomach was a mess — there was something twisting and writhing inside and it was slowly making its way up to his chest.

The car pulled up three minutes later on the dot.

He climbed in. Aunt Pepper made room for him in the back.

“Hey kiddo,” Uncle Happy said softly from the front. He was tap-tap-tapping his fingers on the wheel, more than was normal.

“Pete,” Aunt Pepper said, and shoved something into his hands.

A sandwich. Salami.

She didn't seem surprised that he didn't bring anything.

“Thanks,” he said. He meant it.

She sniffed. She knew.

He unwrapped it and took a bite. It was stale and didn’t really taste like anything.

They didn’t talk the whole ride.

None of them really wanted to talk.

———

Dad had broken down three times.

The first time, it had scared Peter shitless. It was back when Pop had just left. It was at breakfast, and Dad had just come down. He’d cut himself shaving. Bits of toilet paper were stuck to his chin. His eyes were rolling around. He’d climbed up onto the kitchen table, spread his arms and announced, spit flying, that Peter didn’t need to go back to school today, that he didn’t need to go back to school, ever.

“ _Life_ ,” he’d pronounced in a voice way too loud to be normal, “is your education.”

He’d gone to stay with Aunt Pepper.

Two weeks.

The second time, it was during Christmas. Both of them were sure Pop would be back by then, that he was just pretending, that he’d cool down, that he’d show up for Christmas because hell, it was _Christmas_.

He didn’t.

The breakdown wasn’t pretty. It had involved a lot of drinking, a lot of crying, and Peter hiding in his room because he didn’t know how to deal with it yet, because it still scared him to see his dad like that, it _hurt_ to see his dad like that.

He’d gone to stay with Uncle Rhodey.

Three months.

He hadn’t gone to stay with anyone the third time. He’d stayed and he’d picked up the pieces.

He didn’t like to remember the third time.

And he knew Dad tried for him. He tried to be less…less _Dad_ -like. Because seeing Peter scared terrified Tony. He’d pull himself out of the workshop and sleep for sixteen hours straight, he’d try the meds again, even though both of them knew they wouldn’t stick.

“I can’t think when I’m on them,” he’d told Peter one night, almost apologetically. He was holding an orange bottle of pills — clenching it to the point where he thought the plastic would crack. “They iron out the wrinkles and maybe that’s good, maybe all the bad stuff happens in the wrinkles, but all the good stuff does too.”

He tried…but it wasn’t enough. There was too much in his head. And no pills could help; that amount of pent-up energy inside him needed an _outlet_ , not suppression. More often than not, that outlet meant sleep-deprivation, alcohol, and — worst case — a syringe Peter found in the back of the bathroom cupboard. He’d thrown it away, and it had never been discussed.

———

The waiting room was empty. St Magdalene’s staff informed the three of them that Mr Stark was fine, but doctors were still doing check-ups on him, and it would be ill-advised for any of them to enter now, seeing as he was in the ICU, and his condition was yet to be determined.

Fuck.

Aunt Pepper and Uncle Happy sat on either side of him. Aunt Pepper was smoothing out her skirt every few seconds. Uncle Happy was still tap-tap-tapping his fingers on his leg. And Peter was pretty sure he was biting his nails again, but he couldn’t get himself to stop.

None of them talked. None of them had the heart, or the energy. So they all stared blankly off into space, or at the blank, bloodless walls of St Magdalene’s, and waited for a world of shit to hit the fan.


	4. Chapter 4

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I am a Horrible Person™ for not updating for so long, and I'm REALLY SORRY! I got a serious case of writer's block, and I kept putting it off, but I'm back now, and I've got an ending in mind. Anyway, please tell me what you think about this chapter in the comments (constructive criticism is always welcome) and again, I apologize for being a douchebag for not updating.

They let him back a few hours later. It was nearing midnight, and all three of them were tired and desperately trying to pretend that they weren’t. Finally, a nurse — a thin, large-nosed woman in her forties — told them in a bored voice that the patient was awake but fuzzy, that they could go in, but just remember not to disturb him too much, so maybe just keep him company or something.

That was what Peter was planning on doing, anyway. Trying to talk was never a good idea after a hangover, after a breakdown. He would hear, the words would get through, and he’d see the regret — and self-loathing — in his eyes. But then he’d retreat back into himself; that was just _Dad_ : collapsing into himself, back into his mind, into his workplace where it was safe, whenever the outside world got too scary and threatened to invade. Push too hard, and you’d drive him straight back to the bottles.

He stood up. His legs felt numb. Scratch that. _All_ of him felt numb.

From next to him, Aunt Pepper clenched his hand. He was too tired to clench back. Neither of them tried to follow him, and he loved them for that.

He followed the nurse through some corridors, waited as she typed in the passcode for the ICU, and tried not to cry as she stopped him in front of the isolation ward.

The door didn’t have any windows on it.

She told him visiting hours were almost over, but he had around ten minutes, so make it count, and that she’d be waiting for him outside.

Peter hated that idea; it made him feel like she was some sort of security guard, standing just outside the room.

“Thanks,” he muttered.

And for a second, she softened. Like, _softened_. Every sharp edge to her — her thinness, her boniness — somehow rounded themselves out.

She gave him a grimace that might have been a smile.

“I’m sorry, kid. But good luck.”

Before he could respond, she’d pushed him in and closed the door.

His eyes landed on Dad, and his heart jumped to his mouth.

It was bad. _Really_ bad. He was hooked up to all sorts of tubes — they looked like transparent snakes, wriggling in and out of the covers, and _fuck_ he didn’t want to think about that — and there was a heart monitor going _beep beep beep,_ and the call button for help was nestled right under his palm.

But what really scared him were the orange pill bottles on the hospital bed tray. Sleeping pills.

It didn’t take a genius to figure out that amount would have knocked an elephant out.

 _Jesus._ What did he _do_?

There was a chair in the corner of the room: wooden, and very uncomfortable. It couldn’t be worse than the one outside.

He sat down in the uncomfortable wooden chair and watched Dad, watched as he struggled to blink, to open his eyelids, as he wrenched them apart. He kept silent as his eyes flickered to Peter, as he managed to form some sort of recognition, and his lips moved but no sound came out because they were cemented together. He kept silent, despite the fact that he was screaming _why Dad why_ on the inside.

And then.

Several things happened at once.

One: it appeared that Dad had managed to open his mouth.

Two: it appeared that Dad was trying to speak, though no sound was coming out.

Three: Peter was trying not to scream, because hell, _he_ didn’t know what to do, they _never_ spoke, not in the hospital, and definitely not afterwards, no they just sat there in silence, in mutual understanding and wallowed in an endless pit of sadness for a while, and _he didn’t know what to do_ and oh fuck _help_.

He got up. Dad’s eyes followed him. His lips were moving more urgently now — and he could hear a slight mumbling.

What he had to do was obvious. It was also hell on earth.

Shit.

Shit shit _shit_ fuck fucking _hell_.

He took a silent breath.

Deep deep breaths.

Okay Peter.

Walk over to the bed.

Come on.

Left foot. Then right foot. Then left foot again.

He walked over to the bed. He had pins and needles in his legs and he felt horrible. There was something in his stomach that was threatening to come out.

Up close, Dad looked even worse. He’d gotten so papery white and so papery thin. And his voice was nearly gone.

But it was still there.

And he was making a very obvious effort to talk. There was no point in ignoring it.

Peter leaned in close to hear him, and tried not to choke from the smell of puke.

“How —,” he began. This was interrupted by a spurt — almost an _inspired_ spurt — of coughing. After he had stopped, he looked up at Peter with white, papery eyes. He was too tired to continue, and he hoped that Peter would understand, that he’d say it for him.

Peter, understandably, had no idea what his father was talking about.

“It’s okay, Dad,” Peter said. “Take your time.”

Tony closed his eyes. He took a small, cautious breath. Exhaled. He shed some tears. Peter fought the urge to shed some tears himself. He breathed again. Larger, this time — a great big shuddering breath that must’ve filled his ruined lungs.

Finally, he accumulated enough to whisper a complete sentence:

“How did I get so _old_?”

“Tony?”

Both of them froze. Even Dad, who was technically immobile. Peter saw him tense up, under all the covers and the tubes. He saw the pupils dilate and the clenched fists. And he felt his own scream die in his throat.

Because they recognized that voice. And neither of them needed that. Not now.

He was standing in the doorway. Peter wondered if he’d manage to get a punch (preferably to the face) in before he brought him down. He didn’t like it, but Pop was still way buffer than he was, despite being like, ancient. Peter had never really grown since middle school; he’d only gotten lankier, which made him look taller than he actually was.

“Petey,” Pop said, and Peter nearly died right there. He hadn’t called him Petey since elementary.

“What are you doing here?” He didn’t even bother keeping the venom out of his voice. And Peter didn’t bother looking at him. He was focusing on Dad. Who had his eyes closed. And looked like he was concentrating on breathing. In, out. In, out.

_Yeah, you and me both, Dad._

“They almost didn’t let me in. Immediate family, and all that. And visiting hours are almost over.”

Peter did not dignify this with a response.

“Peter.” He was wearing his serious tone. Every syllable was measured, assertive, dominant. “I’m here because I’m family. I’m your dad. Whether you like it or not.”

Then.

There was a rustle. Maybe it was Dad, fidgeting under the sheets. Or maybe it was just life, breathing. Breathing in, then out, then moving on with a near-silent shuffle.

Either way.

Something breathed, and something snapped.

It was the beginning of an avalanche.

Peter looked up at him, at the man in the doorway. He had on his stupid old aviator jacket. And he was looking all understanding and sympathetic and Peter wanted to throw the chair at him.

“No,” Peter heard himself saying. “You are _not_ my dad. You stopped being my dad after you signed those divorce papers. After you _kicked me out_. After you chose your stupid precious _Bucky_ over me. Over _us_.”

Dad was mumbling again, but Peter ignored him. Something was leaking out of him now, and he couldn’t stop, he couldn’t even _move_ : he knew his feet were bolted to the ground, but his hands were fists and his mouth pretty much seemed to have a mind of its own.

“And if you think you have any right to come back here saying you’re _family_ , and that you _care_ …well think again. Because you are not allowed to just waltz back in, all carefree and happy, and just assume that there’s still a place for you here. Because there isn’t. You forfeited that place when you signed on the goddamned line. So _leave_. Before I throw this motherfucking chair at you.”

Pop seemed to sag, right before his eyes. He’d always stood as tall as a giant, but then he seemed to cower in the doorway. He hunched into himself. His eyes were battered, his shoulders defeated. Words, Peter thought, were a dangerous weapon.

_Good. Let him hurt. Let him see what it feels like._

He felt a tug on his sleeve. Peter looked down at Dad. He’d somehow gotten even more papery white, in the span of thirty seconds.

“Yeah, Dad?” Peter choked out. He sounded calmer than he felt.

He was still there. Lingering.

Dad muttered something unintelligible.

“Okay, Dad.”

He clenched his hand gently. Dad was too tired to clench back, but there was a sort of spasm in his fingertips. At least he was trying.

“Ahem.”

Peter didn’t look up. Dad closed his eyes.

All of them waited for the next words.

They came — softly. It made it all the worse.

“I see I’ve outstayed my welcome,” said a voice from the doorway. And no doubt it was meant to be gentle, but the words were no better than rocks flung at the both of them. “I’ll…go, then.”

Screams and rebuttals died in Peter’s throat. God he was so _tired_. Sitting there in that stupid wooden hospital chair, holding Dad’s hand, listening to the sound of Pop’s footsteps echo down the hallway…Jesus, he just wanted to crawl under the covers like he was four and sleep and never deal with any problems ever again.

“Kid?” It was a different voice. The nurse.

Visiting hours were over. “Oh.” Peter straightened up. “Right.”

He looked back at Dad, who was staring at the ceiling. But he looked tired, and he was drifting. Good. He needed sleep. He always did after a breakdown.

“I’ll swing by tomorrow, Dad,” he whispered.

Dad managed a faint “Mmm”, and Peter’s heart nearly broke.

“Bye,” he choked out.

The nurse must’ve seen, he thought. She must’ve known who Pop was. The divorce had been splashed all over the news. He still remembered the headlines: _Merchant of Death’s Marriage Bites the Dust_. Or: _Finally At Ease: Former US Military Soldier Parts Ways with Tony Stark_. God, even thinking about it made him gag.

And thank God or whatever supernatural beings there were that she didn’t try to talk to him about it. Instead, she just walked him back out to the lobby. Happy and Pepper were still there, talking under their breaths. They looked up when he approached them.

“I’m surprised you let him back there.” He said.

Happy grimaced. “Oh believe me, I tried to stop him. But apparently, the man can hold some injuries. Including a kick to the groin.”

Pepper smoothed out her hair. “Well, it was either let him in or get kicked out, and frankly, we’re responsible for you kid, so…,” she held her hands up.

Happy growled. “But on the bright side, he’s fair game on the streets, and I’ve been practicing boxing.”

“Happy, as much as I admire your talent, Pop’s still…well, a former US soldier. And you’re…well, not.”

“Your point?”

“I don’t want the next person in the ICU to be you.”

Happy patted him on the back. “Yeah, kid. You alright?”

Peter winced. Not because of the back. “Define alright.”

“Alive, for starters,” Pepper murmured.

Barely, Peter thought.

He looked at them. They were smiling, for him. And he knew that they knew he was not okay, that he very much doubted he’d ever be, and that he doubted they were okay either, and they were all fragile broken strings barely held together, and they were all slowly crumbling.

He smiled too. For them.

“Yeah. I’m good.”

They smiled back, and the smiles were so broken — glinting in the whitening hospital light — it was almost beautiful. Almost.


	5. Chapter 5

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So I actually updated. This isn't a particularly good chapter, so I'm looking forward to reading your comments about it :) By the way, the 'new guy' in question may become somebody important later on. Can you guess who might be making an appearance? Thinking about turning this into a Peter story, with Stony in the background, since I think it's better to follow his train of thought. Thoughts? Comments are love.

They let him go a few weeks later. He was still as transparently white as he had been that first night, but the hospital staff deemed him “stable enough”, so he was free to go back to Stark Tower, but he wasn’t to go back to work or anything, he was to stay in bed and rest until he was feeling all better. Which, in Peter’s opinion, was a terrible idea. Dad’s way of healing was locking himself up in the workshop and working for eighteen hours on end. He certainly didn’t _rest_. Resting had the opposite effect: his brain wouldn’t — it _couldn’t_ — calm down, and he’d just start going haywire again. So when he told the doctor, “yes sir, I’ll make sure he gets plenty of rest, and that he takes the meds and goes to bed early”, what he really meant was _yes sir, I’ll make sure he’s in the workshop, I’ll make sure there’s no alcohol, and I’ll chuck the meds into the bin the minute we get home because they never work anyway so really, what’s the point._

Uncle Happy and Aunt Pepper decided to drive Dad home. Without Peter. And he wasn’t happy about it, but they had an admittedly strong argument.

“You’re going to be late to school,” Pepper said as she walked across the hospital lobby. She had one hand on Peter’s back, and another on Dad’s wheelchair. He was still fast asleep; they’d given him another dose of sleeping pills before they let him out. His head was lolling to the side. Pepper nudged him gently back into place without slowing down.

“I don’t care,” Peter protested, running to catch up with her. Jesus, she had on _four-inch heels_ and she could still walk faster than him. “I can skip Physics, it’s no big —,”

“You’re not skipping. Not on our watch, kid.” Happy said. He was doing a sort of jog-slash-walk, like Peter, to catch up with Pepper (who did not seem to have a ‘slow-walk’ option). “Your dad wouldn’t want you to be missing out on your education.”

Peter opened his mouth, but Aunt Pepper beat him to it. “You know he wants you to go to MIT. And with your grades, you could get in. Grades you can’t afford to lose. Grades you can’t afford to lose by _skipping_.”

“But —,”

Then Aunt Pepper gave him her patented evil eye, the one that made Stark Industries board members shudder, and Peter knew protesting was useless. Uncle Happy patted him on the shoulder. “We’ll get him settled in. Make sure he eats some food. And we’ll let him into the workshop, if he wants to. Don’t worry, kid.” He said gently.

“I just wanna —,”

“ _Peter._ ” Pepper stopped so abruptly that both of them nearly ran right into her. She swiveled round, placed her hand on her hip, raised her eyebrow. Her other hand was still on Dad’s wheelchair. Peter marveled internally at her balancing skills. He’d never be able to do that. He’d probably break his ankle or something.

“I know you’re worried. Hell, I know you _like_ to worry. But you’re just a kid. You’re a _teenager_ , for Christ’s sake. You’re not supposed to be worrying. You’re supposed to be off — I don’t know — partying, or something.”

She bent down and ruffled his hair. She still smelled like Chanel No 5. _Overnight Chanel No 5_ , Peter thought.

“I don’t like partying.”

“Well, then don’t party. Just —,” she gave a short huff. “Just be a _teenager_.”

“I fulfill all the mandatory criteria for being a teenager. I’m fifteen. I go to high school. I still can’t grow a beard.”

“Add another one to that list,” she said, straightening up. “Annoying adults.”

She turned to Uncle Happy. “Could you drive Peter to school?”

“ _What_?” Peter yelled. Had she gone _insane_? He couldn’t show up to school in a goddamn _Mercedes_! What would they _say_ about him?

Aunt Pepper (of course) ignored him. She was already _clack-clack-clack_ ing towards the hospital exit, singlehandedly steering Dad and the conversation. “Your bag’s in the trunk.” She told him, not bothering to look back at him. “I checked your schedule and packed your bag for you last night. Oh, and Peter, you really should clean your room. It’s a pigsty in there.”

Peter was highly offended, and not just because she called his room a pigsty (it was perfectly clean in there; he’d cleaned just last _week_ ). “You went into my _room_? And you looked through my _stuff_? _Without my permission?_ ”

“Oh Peter,” she sighed. “You are overreacting.”

“I’m not — this is a total invasion of my privacy.”

“I’ll be nice and take it that you’re thanking me,” Pepper replied. They were right outside the car now. Then Peter realized a different problem. Happy also reached the conclusion the same time he did.

“There’s only one car,” Uncle Happy pointed out. “How are you gonna —,”

“Taxi,” Pepper said promptly. She started wheeling Dad towards the hospital taxi-stand. “And don’t worry, I’ll pay extra to make sure the driver doesn’t spill to the press. Happy, you come back once you drop Peter off, okay?”

“That’s hardly safe,” Peter muttered under his breath. “What if he does? He’d get a lot of money from the paps. Next thing you know, it’s gonna be all over the news.”

“Trust me, Pete,” Happy said, ushering him into the car. “He’s with Pepper. She’ll make sure he doesn’t spill. If he does — well, God help the driver. And it’s not like Pepper doesn’t do damage control well.”

And Peter had to admit he had a point.

But all the same.

He made it to school in time, even though he had Happy drop him off three blocks away. Flash nearly ran him over with _his_ Mercedes when he was crossing the street, but otherwise it was worth it. He was distracted all day: he missed an easy question from Mr Harrington, and messed up on his Chemistry project during class — a high-pressure adhesive that somehow managed to explode all over his workbench. At least Michelle got a good laugh out of it. By the time the bell rang for lunch, Peter was genuinely contemplating climbing over the school fence and making a run for it. Which would’ve been a great idea, except 1) he had no measurable upper body strength, and 2) even if he did get over the fence, the track field still lay between him and freedom, and he was 100% sure that 3) there would be PE lessons there, so 4) he’d definitely get caught. So he spent lunch poking at his food, which wasn’t that appetizing to begin with, anyway (he was sure it was last Monday’s spaghetti Alfredo, recycled Midtown High-style). Ned offered to build a Lego Millennium Falcon with him after school (which did sound pretty amazing), but Peter declined.

“I’ve gotta get back home quick,” he explained.

Ned shrugged. “Sure. Wanna work on it during workshop, then?”

Peter brightened. “Yeah, okay.” Mr Waylon generally didn’t care what you did during workshop, as long as you emerged with four limbs still attached to your body, so workshop was more like a free lesson, except you were allowed to use hammers and screwdrivers. So Peter worked on the Millennium Falcon with Ned, spent about 20 minutes arguing about whether or not to add some X-wings (“We don’t have time to make an entire fleet, not if we want to turn this in as our final project —” “— It’s _accuracy_ , Pete, _cinematic accuracy._ ” “—It’s cinematic _idiocy.”_ ), but a tiny little voice in the back of his head wouldn’t shut up.

_Did Dad get home okay? Did the taxi driver spill to the press? Was Aunt Pepper doing okay? Did she get him settled in alright? Make sure there weren’t any bottles in the workshop? Dad liked to store it in the cranny with his tools, did she check there? Or did she make him go to bed first?_

When the bell for end of school rang, Peter was busy fighting a war with himself — and another one with Ned, who was still hellbent on getting those X-wings done.

“I’m telling you, Peter, we can get it done in time. Just trust me. I’ll make the base for the Falcon tonight, and — promise — we’ll get the entire thing done in a week. The X-wings won’t even be a problem.”

“Ned. One: we don’t have time to make minuscule X-wings. Two: we don’t have the skill to make minuscule X-wings circling a Lego Millennium Falcon. Three: even if we _did_ , it wouldn’t be _necessary_.”

Ned gasped. “Of course it’s necessary. Do you know who flew an X-wing? Luke freaking Skywalker. And Han freaking Solo flew the Falcon. And they’re pretty much inseparable. So. We have to have the Falcon and the X-wings.”

Peter sighed. This day would never end. He blinked twice, rubbed his eyes to get the gunk out. Sleep deprivation was finally catching up to him; Peter was pretty sure he was running on nothing but willpower and those two cups of coffee he’d downed during lunch. And suddenly he couldn’t bring himself to care about the stupid Falcon or the stupid X-wings. All he wanted to do was get home and check up on Dad and then curl up in bed and sleep for a few millennia.

“Whatever, dude,” he shrugged. “It’s your call.”

Ned faltered. “Hey…if you don’t wanna do the wings, it’s fine — I just —,”

“It’s cool, man. Just — I gotta get home. Call you later, yeah?”

Ned opened his mouth, closed it again. “Yeah, okay.”

Peter pretty much ran out the school doors. He didn’t bother to stop at Delmar’s; he went straight to the subway and pulled out his phone.

_9 unread messages._

His heart skipped a beat.

Jesus fuck.

He’d kept his phone on all through school: how could he have missed —

He swore internally. Workshop. Made sense. He wouldn’t have heard it over all the noise, and he hadn’t bothered to check his phone: he was too busy arguing about the stupid fucking Falcon and the stupid fucking X-wings.

He swiped.

Four from Aunt Pepper.

_Made him take his meds. He’s asleep now. Don’t worry. [13:09]_

_He woke for a bit, then crashed again. Didn’t ask to go down to the workshop. Too groggy. I’m staying overnight to make sure he doesn’t need anything. [13:39]_

_Peter, either you have a serious raccoon problem, or you’ve not bought any food in three months. Your kitchen is literally empty. [13:42]_

_Gone grocery shopping, since there’s fuck-all to eat. Will be back in 30 minutes. Made Happy take over for me. Go home yourself, okay? [13:43]_

He breathed a sigh of relief.

Dad was fine. Aunt Pepper was fine. The house wasn’t burning down. They were fine.

He breathed out again, and typed out a reply, tried not to feel affronted: what did Aunt Pepper think he could do? He wasn’t allowed to use the stove, and Dad never cooked anymore, not since Pop left, so they survived off takeaways/takeouts from Panda Express or Pizza Hut. The delivery guy knew him by his name already.

_Sorry about the food situation. I’m on the subway back home. Could you get me some Cheerios? The honey flavor kind. Thanks. [14:52]_

Her reply came immediately, before he could check the other 5 messages.

_Cheerios are glorified breakfast foods containing 99% sugar and virtually no percent nutrition. I’m getting you oatmeal. [14:52]_

_Boo. [14:53]_

He clicked to the other 5 messages. All from the band practice group, thank God. They were freaking out over the fact that the recital was less than a month away and they still couldn’t find another tuba guy, since Jason had quit earlier that month (there had been some serious drama and the resulting fight was spectacular: Peter’d never thought a saxophone could cause _that_ much damage). The messages were just variations of suggestions on who to replace him.

_That guy from Physics? With the brown hair? — Cindy [10:04]_

_His name’s Ken. And he plays the cello, not the tuba. — Ned [11:14]_

_How about that new guy? What’s-his-name. — Alex [11:49]_

_Doesn’t he seem a little too…_ alternative _for us? — Cindy [13:14]_

_Yeah, new guy looks like he could cut all our throats. — Jessie [13:26]_

Huh. Peter didn’t know there was a new guy at school. Usually new kids’ arrivals were the talk of the town, which meant Flash would give him a few days’ break to torment the new kid. The last one’d had enough of him and moved to Idaho or something.

He plugged in his earphones. He desperately needed some Alt-J. Or some Ramones. And, y’know, caffeine. And sleep. A lot of sleep.

Peter closed his eyes.

_Hey shady baby I’m hot, like the prodigal son…Pick a battle, eenie meenie miney moe, hey flower you’re the chosen one…_

He opened his eyes to the rumble of the train. It was already announcing ‘Stark Station’. He’d always found that embarrassing: only Dad would see fit to name a station after him. He got off hurriedly.

His nap had managed to calm him somewhat, but his fears still lurked at the back of his brain.

He pretty much ran back to Stark Tower (which was a feat in itself, since Peter was definitely not the athletic type). By the time he got to the lobby, he was dying for breath, and seriously regretting his decision to jog the three blocks. He managed to resume some semblance of normal breathing during the elevator ride up, but even when he stepped into the living room, he was still panting like a dog on heat.

Aunt Pepper was sitting on the sofa, flipping through _TIME_. The TV was on, tuned to CNN. _Checking if the taxi driver spilled_ , Peter thought. She looked up when he walked in. Even after an all-nighter, she still looked like she’d just downed a Red Bull.

“Hey kid. How was school?”

“The usual. Our teachers are sh — I mean, crap, and my friend’s an idiot.”

Aunt Pepper laughed. “Yep. Pretty much sums up high school.”

She stood up, and sauntered over to the kitchen. “I pretty much bought out the entire grocery store. So you’re good to go for the next few months or so. I arranged them according to expiry dates.” She opened the refrigerator. It was jam-packed with re-heatable meals.

Peter grinned, walking over. “You’re a lifesav — what the hell is _that_?” The that in question was a few bottles of highly questionable liquids.

Aunt Pepper pursed her lips. “ _That_ is kale juice and lemon juice and ginger tea. It’s healthy for you. You can’t survive on pizza and Coke alone, Pete.”

Peter’s jaw dropped. She couldn’t possibly be serious. Maybe she’d gone crazy too. Because what in the name of fuck would possess her to think that he’d seriously drink kale juice?

“And he’s fine, by the way. He’s sleeping now. Jesus, those sleeping pills are something. Could use a few of them myself. Anyway, he’ll probably wake up sometime next morning, so I’ll be over tomorrow too. Happy’ll take you to school tomorrow.”

Peter breathed out a sigh of relief. Dad was okay. He was sleeping. It was going to be fine. And he didn’t bother arguing the Happy-taking-him-to-school part.

“Yeah, okay. Thanks, Aunt Pepper.”

She gave him one of her rare smiles. “You’re welcome, Pete.”

He went upstairs, suddenly feeling the weight of the day’s events on top of him. He collapsed onto his bed, not even bothering to take off his shoes. As his eyes closed, he found himself thinking, hoping against hope that maybe this would be the last time Dad went under. Maybe he’d get better. Maybe this time. Maybe. Just maybe…

Peter drifted off, into sweet oblivion.

 


	6. Chapter 6

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> What? Two updates in two days? That's right, I'm back! Finished this chapter on a high after realizing a university gave me an offer :) Oh, and check out my other Drarry fic too! It's really short (as in I've only written the prologue), but I'd really like you guys to go on over to that fic and comment constructive criticism! Of course, comments like this are welcome here too! As always, love you all and have a great day!

Dad did okay the next couple days. He was still a watered-down version of himself, walking around in a semi-haze because of the meds, but otherwise he was fine. He was getting better. Aunt Pepper promised.

“I’ve been keeping an eye on him,” she told Peter before school on Day Three. Because they both knew the first few weeks were crucial. You had to let him go, gently, let him breathe and relax and regain his footing — but you couldn’t push too hard. And you couldn’t be overbearing. Do that, and he’d just collapse inwards, into his own little mental hideout where nobody, not even Peter, could ever reach. “I’m making sure he’s getting off the meds, slowly. So he’s taking two in the morning, one at night. And he’s reacting well. Really well.”

Peter nodded. He _was_ reacting well. Dad was doing good this morning. He’d risen before he did — _before he did_ — and gone down into the workshop. JARVIS had willingly shown them the security camera inside: he was tinkering around with his computer and DUM-E. Nothing harmful. But still. As Aunt Pepper put it — “just to be safe”. Yeah. Just to be safe.

Nobody had said anything; nobody wanted to jinx it. But they all felt it: that little spark of hope in their stomach, the tiny butterflies stirring. Peter hated it and loved it.

Peter looked up at Aunt Pepper. She’d stayed over and watched the security cameras all day yesterday. And the cracks were starting to show. She looked like _hell_. Her makeup was coming off in bits, and she’d all but given up on her hair, like she’d just kipped on the sofa and woken up and just decided _fuck it_. He’d never seen Aunt Pepper without her spotless makeup on, so seeing her like this — with tornado hair and day-old lipstick and rings under her eyes — kind of freaked him out.

She caught him staring, and knew exactly why. She attempted to pat down her hair, then gave up mid-way. Aunt Pepper sipped her coffee, shrugged. “Feel like hell, look like hell. But hey, I signed up for this job, and I’ve stuck with it for twenty years. I know what to expect. And honestly, he’s nothing compared to the board members.” She took another sip of coffee, her eyes narrowing. “Fucking board members,” she hissed into the cup.

Peter munched on his breakfast and didn’t comment.

It was Happy’s turn today. They briefed him on what to do during breakfast — which, to Peter’s annoyance, consisted of fucking _oatmeal_ and _kale juice_ — and Happy had nodded and summarized what they’d used 30 minutes agonizing over in less than twenty words: “keep an eye on the security cameras. Make him eat some food. Make sure he gets some sleep.”

Aunt Pepper nodded, obviously relieved he wasn’t a total idiot. “Yeah. Call me if you need anything, yeah?” Which was basically code for _do not call me unless Stark Tower is collapsing and or burning to the ground, because I’ll be busy at the company all day, fighting fucking board members._

Which would be true, Peter guessed, munching on his oatmeal. The board would be in an uproar. Demanding for his resignation…He looked over at Aunt Pepper, who suddenly looked ten years older. Then she looked up from her (third) cup of coffee and gave him one of _those smiles_ and he felt a pang of gratitude for her. And a sudden need to cry.

Thank God for Aunt Pepper.

She walked him to the subway, even after vehement protestations that he was _fifteen_ , and he didn’t need somebody to _walk him to the subway._ She walked him all the way to the platform, and ruffled his hair goodbye, because Aunt Pepper didn’t say goodbyes. He watched her stay still on the platform: all red hair and black suit, statue-like, until the train turned the corner and plunged into blackness.

He arrived at school half an hour early, which was still too late, because Ned was already there, and decided it was a good idea to jump him the minute he walked in the doors.

“Peter. God _damn_. Did you hear? Did you _hear_?”

Peter was still trying to get his heartbeat back to a normal rate, because being jumped at 7:30 in the morning kinda got your blood up and running and your head spinning, and didn’t get you curious about what happened.

“No. I didn’t. And Ned, please don’t scare me like that again. I’ll have a bloody _heart attack_.”

He looked at Ned, who looked like Christmas had come early. And Peter was thinking: maybe Mr Warren or the lunch lady had resigned, because that was the only explanation for such euphoria, when Ned said, “There’s a _new guy_.”

Oh.

“Um. Okay. Yeah, I heard. In the group chat.”

Ned’s face fell. “You are not giving the appropriate reaction. Perhaps you were too amazed by this news to do so, so I shall repeat myself: there is a _new guy_.”

“Would you like me to start tap-dancing?”

They reached the lockers. Peter unzipped his bag and started piling his books into his locker, trying to tune him out. Seriously. He loved Ned; he was the only friend he had, but he could be seriously annoying at times. And he was still trying to get him excited about the new guy.

“His name is Wade Wilson. Weird, right? Sounds like somebody Harrison Ford would play in a movie. But anyway. And — I’ve not seen him yet — but they say he looks like he could _gut_ someone. Jessie says think Blade Runner. Dude. Fucking _Blade Runner_.”

His eyes were shining, like he was excited at the fact that their school might have let a future mass murderer in.

“Yeah, that’s cool and all, but can you skip to the part where this is relevant to our sadly irrelevant social lives?”

Ned smirked. “Michelle let him into band.”

Peter’s jaw dropped. “No way.”

Michelle let a new guy-slash-possible criminal into band? And why would — at least, according to Ned’s description — a delinquent want to be in _band_? Why would a delinquent even _play an instrument_?

Ned laughed. “I don’t know, I think she might have a crush on him or something. But we got a new tuba player now, so don’t even think about missing nationals.”

Peter groaned, and slammed the locker door shut. This day was already going down the drain, and it wasn’t even 8:00 yet. “Okay. Whatever. Can we please skip to another channel? Preferably one that doesn’t involve the new guy? Because I prefer not to talk about possible psychopaths. I think that’s bad luck or something.”

Ned snorted. “Pete, that’s all anyone can talk about. So yeah, we can talk about something else. But new kid’s gonna be what everyone else is talking about.”

And Ned, unfortunately was right. By the time lunch rolled around, Peter had heard enough to know: there was a new kid at Midtown High, and _this was a Big Deal_. Peter wasn’t socially relevant enough to know about newcomers first thing, but this kid attracted everyone’s attention. Mainly because he wanted to.

The unspoken rule about new transfers — especially for those who decided to transfer during the middle of the school year — was to keep their head down and stick it out till the end of the school year. Not this kid. He walked down the hallway like he owned it. Of course, there were only two endings to this train-wreck situation: he could end up at the top of the social ladder, or become a social travesty. Amazingly enough, it was the former.

Which was a surprise, considering Wade wasn’t…well, he didn’t exactly look _nice_. Not nice enough to be considered hot, which would have been an immediate ticket to the top of the food chain. As in, Peter was pretty sure half his face was burned off. Maybe in a fire or something, he didn’t know. But he was ridiculously tall (seriously, was Peter the _only_ guy in school whose growth spurt stopped in ninth grade?), and he cracked jokes non-stop, which made the girls (and some of the boys) adore him, so he sauntered his way to the top of the social rung soon enough. As in, he’d been invited to sit with the jocks and the cheerleaders the first day.

And all this did not explain why he’d signed up for fucking _band practice_. Surely he knew where that activity sat on the social ladder. Peter’d understand if the kid was a nerd, but Wade was obviously not. He was popular. Now he understood Ned’s reaction: this was not only a Big Deal at school, but a Major Deal in the small irrelevant underground society that was the Band Practice Room.

But Peter would be lying if he said he wasn’t enjoying this, just a tiny bit. Because drama was desperately scarce in his school life, and right now, it was like World War Three. And Cindy screeching three decibels above the normal human capacity at least helped him forget about Dad for a while. Cindy, as band leader, had called an emergency meeting during lunch in the band room R32, which, according to her (and the majority of band members, including Peter and Ned) believed had always been reserved purely for nerds. And now, in her own words, this safe zone had been violated, and Michelle had broken the only rule that mattered: never let the ‘populars’ infiltrate the Band Room. Peter and Ned had spent their entire lunch hour sitting at the back, trying not to snigger too loudly and betting whose voice would crack first during an argument: Cindy, Michelle or Mr Verne, who looked to be on the verge of a breakdown. To summarize: Peter won $10, because Michelle started swearing about 10 minutes in; Ned lost because Mr Verne’s voice didn’t break, he just started crying, and all in all, both of them felt it was a lunch hour well-spent.

All this commotion over the New Guy — who apparently was important enough to instigate a _lunch meeting_ over — got Peter interested enough to sneak some peeks at him during class. He shared four classes with Peter (how he got into Honors Physics and Biology, Peter didn’t know), but the first thing you’d notice about him was that he wore a mask. Constantly. But that didn’t really work in covering the burns and scars above his cheeks. _Fire accident_ , Peter thought. _Had to be._

_Or he’s Frankenstein’s monster. Either one of the two._

New Guy didn’t seem to mind people staring. At the scars. In fact, he seemed to like it. He basked in the attention, gladly regaling the story of how he’d gotten them. But of course, the story changed every time he told it. During PE, the story was that his face got burned while he was rescuing a damsel in distress from a burning building. Chemistry: it was multiple damsels in distress. Peter was pretty sure he’d mentioned Naomi Watts somewhere, but he couldn’t be sure: he was too busy juggling eavesdropping and actually paying attention to Mr Harrington. Honors Biology: he tried convincing Betty Brant he was actually the great-great-grandson of the Phantom of the Opera, and that he secretly had awesome sword-fighting skills, and he’d been training in the mountains of Tibet for years before rejoining society as a katana-wielding warrior. Peter thought she’d actually believed him.

So when the bell rang for end of school, Peter had gotten two things down about him: he was a total player, and he was quite possibly the biggest idiot he’d ever met. But he wasn’t a psychopath. He thought.

Peter kind of understood _why_ he was a player: all the girls liked him. Ignoring the burns and the scars, he did look _kinda_ handsome; he had this Danny Zuko thing going on. With bad hair. And worse fashion — Peter didn’t know much about clothes himself, but he didn’t think Wade was wearing that _I LIKED THE STAR WARS PREQUELS_ shirt unironically.

He shuddered. If Ned ever saw that shirt, he’d have a heart attack.

A voice sounded from behind him. “Hey. Parker, right?”

He spun around.

Jesus _fuck_.

It was New Guy. Who happened to fucking _tower_ over him, in his mask and his leather jacket and ripped jeans and combat boots. And that stupid Star Wars shirt.

What in the God-blessed name of actual fuck.

 _He’s going to murder me_ , Peter thought. _He’s totally gonna gut me and leave my entrails in my locker and eat them or something._

“Um.” Peter said intelligently.

New Guy laughed. “You’re usually this monosyllabic?”

He’d been called a lot of things before, but never _monosyllabic_. In fact, Peter was pretty surprised he even knew the term monosyllabic; he’d taken him for one of those jocks, who surprised Peter daily by managing to function without usage of their brains.

“No,” Peter said, hoping he didn’t sound as petulant as he thought he did. “It’s just not every day a complete stranger comes up behind me and announces my name.”

New Guy gasped. “But we’re not strangers. We have classes together. And I’m in band. Like you are.”

Peter raised an eyebrow. “Did your research, huh? And I’m not so sure about the band part. Cindy had an aneurysm when she found out.”

He grinned. “That Asian girl, right? Shit, would’ve paid good money to see that.”

Peter still had no idea why they were having this conversation.

“Yeah, it was pretty funny.”

New Guy smiled. And then there was silence, and the compulsory awkwardness that came with it. Peter fumbled for a topic.

“You liked the Star Wars prequels?”

He was never going to talk again. Ever.

New Guy — _Wade_ — looked down at his shirt, shrugged. “Yeah. They were funny.”

“And you’re not wearing that unironically.”

“The Star Wars prequels were _made_ unironically. Which is funny as fuck.”

And despite himself, Peter laughed.

Wade smiled. And Peter could see Betty frowning in their direction over his shoulder.

“You’re funny, Parker.”

What.

“Well,” Wade said, slapping him lightly on the shoulder, “see you around…Parker.”

“Uh,” Peter said. “Okay.”

He gave some form of salute, and melted into the crowd. And seconds later, Ned had magically appeared next to him.

“Dude. _Dude_.”

Peter was still busy recovering from his near-death experience to get his heart rate back to normal, let alone respond.

“Pete! Anyone home?” Ned slapped him on the back. Peter, naturally, buckled. Ned was _strong_ ; the wrestling team had been after him for years. The only reason he didn’t join was because Ned was strongly morally opposed to any form of physical exercise.

“ _Jesus_ , Ned. I think you dislocated my fucking shoulder.”

“Sorry,” said Ned, not sounding sorry at all. “What did New Guy want? Oh my God does he want your lunch money? Should I pretend I don’t know you?”

“This isn’t the movies, Ned. And no, he doesn’t want my lunch money. He — actually, I don’t know what he wants. He came up to me and started talking about…band.”

“ _Wow_ ,” Ned said, widening his eyes. “ _Weird_.” He stood up on his tip-toes, scanning the halls for a glimpse of Wade.

“Whoa. He’s tall. Jesus, he’s as tall as a _door_. And — wait _what the fuck is that shirt_?”

Peter suppressed a snicker. And later felt bad for thinking it would be funny if Ned saw the shirt, because it was only funny for the first few seconds, and then it rapidly went downhill because Ned went off on a tirade which lasted approximately one hour.

On the ride home, blocking out Ned gabbling on about the downsides of giving Boba Fett a backstory (which was nothing new; Peter had heard this a thousand times before), he thought about New Guy — _Wade_. Why did he come up to him? And he knew his _name_. Why the hell would he know his name? Unless he liked — but no Wade wouldn’t _possibly_ like…Jesus Christ was he obsessing over a _guy_?

Peter knew he was gay; he’d known ever since all the boys declared Gwen Stacey “hot as fuck” and “very bangable” and Peter felt absolutely nothing, but he did feel a particular _something_ when he saw Harry Osborn naked in the boys’ locker room, but he definitely wasn’t _this_ gay. His extent of gayness was limited to wanking off to pictures of James McAvoy. Not he-likes-me-he-likes-me-not type of gay.

 _Jesus_.

He put in his earbuds, turned the volume up. MKTO drowned out the world around him. Dad was still on meds, Stark Industries was on the verge of collapse, and now this new guy turns up and threatens to topple the peaceful nonexistence of Peter’s life at school. And now he was acting like a preteen girl, thinking _oh my God does he like me he knows my name though that means he likes me oh but what if he doesn’t_.

Just. Great.

He closed his eyes. Just when he thought his life couldn’t get any more complicated.


	7. Chapter 7

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Oh. My. God. This fic has been on hiatus for so long I actually didn't even remember it was out! I'm really sorry for not continuing this, but university entrance exams had me swamped for the last couple of months, but I'm glad to say that I've gotten into university, it's all going well and I am back! Anyway, this chapter is mainly fluff because I am desperately ignoring what happened in Infinity War, so don't worry, this is an Infinity War-angst free space for all those also in denial. As always, please feel free to leave comments!

Everybody acted like _this_ was what they’d been waiting for their whole lives. Like it was Coachella or a Marvel movie red carpet or something. Even Mr Verne looked nervous. He kept shuffling his scores and rearranging them. Everyone knew what they were all waiting for: New Guy. Band practice started at four sharp, and pretty much everybody was already here (it was an unspoken rule of the underground masses to always be early). New Guy obviously didn’t get the memo. It was four oh five now. And everybody’s eyes would flicker almost unconsciously towards the door every few seconds, then immediately back to their own instruments.

Peter fiddled with his clarinet and tried not to look too interested. So he focused on Michelle, who was twirling her drumsticks and pointedly ignoring Cindy, who was glaring daggers at her from over at the violins.

Ned gave out a low whistle. “Well. This is cheery.”

“You have a death wish or something?” Peter hissed back.

“Try finding somebody to replace me. I’ve obviously got the most important job here.” Ned held up his triangle, smiling.

Peter opened his mouth to respond — he’d already formulated something along the lines of _shut up_ — but was interrupted by the band room door banging open.

Everybody stiffened (except for Michelle; she kept twirling her drumsticks, albeit a bit faster).

“How you doing folks,” New Guy — Wade said, waltzing into the room. His talents obviously did not include reading social cues, Peter thought.

“Ah. Yes. Mr Wilson.” Mr Verne stuttered. “Well, I’m not sure if you know this — I guess you don’t, since you’re new — but band practice starts at four, and we have a strictly on-time policy. So…”

“Ah. Got it, man. Sorry.”

Mr Verne seemed to be having an internal dilemma as to whether or not he should risk possible death-by-teenager by insisting it was improper for a student to call him “man”. Apparently, his wish to live ruled over his dignity, and he laughed weakly.

“There’s a chair for you at the back, with Ned and Peter.” Mr Verne offered.

Peter choked on his spit. Ned kicked his chair.

“Shit shit shit shit _shit_ ,” Ned said.

“You are an excellent commentator,” Peter observed.

And Ned probably would have responded with something along the lines of _shut up_ too, had New Guy not already plopped onto the empty seat next to Peter.

“Hello,” he said, grinning at the both of them. “Parker.”

The aforementioned did not particularly trust his voice to work, so he just nodded.

Wade looked over him — seriously, looked _over_ him, he was _that_ tall — at Ned, who was trying (and failing) to hide behind him. “This your friend?”

Ned made a sound akin to a dying cat.

“Shit, kid,” Wade said. “You alright? You got a cough or something?”

“He’s Ned.” Peter managed.

“Does Ned have a cough?”

“Ned does not have a cough,” Ned said.

 

New Guy — Wade — sniggered. “Didn’t peg you for a clarinet guy.”

Peter looked at his tuba pointedly.

He shrugged. “Fair enough.”

Peter opened his mouth to say something, mainly something along the lines of _oh by the way why the hell do you play tuba you look like you kill people who_ play _tubas_ when Mr Verne cut in. Which was just as well, because in retrospect, that was not the cleverest thing he could have asked a would-be killer.

“So, um, everyone.” Mr Verne said. Peter noted he was getting paler by the second. “This is our new tuba player, Mr Wade Wilson.” Wade jumped up, almost knocking over his tuba in the process. He did an exaggerated bow. “Thank you, thank you everyone.” He said in a loud voice. “Photographs with me are free. Autographs are $2.5 per person.”

A few people laughed. It seemed enough for him, as he grinned and sat back down. Cindy looked murderous.

“Alright,” Mr Verne said, fixing his scores (again). “Now, if everybody would turn their scores to page six, let’s pick up where we last left off.”

Peter flipped to the relevant page and tried not to think of the new guy — Wade, sitting right next to him.

Neither clarinets, triangles, nor tubas were required until the last part. Fuck.

Wade and Ned had apparently reached the same conclusion as he did: this gave them ample time to, ah… _engage in niceties_.

Peter wondered if it was possible to kill oneself using a musical instrument.

“So.”

Peter and Ned looked over at Wade.

“Do you think I look hot?” Wade asked, raising his tuba a bit.

Ned dropped his triangle. Peter managed to disguise his laugh as a cough, but just barely.

“What?” Wade said.

“Uh,” Peter said.

“You look…like a tuba player.” Ned provided.

Wade raised his eyebrows.

“Sorry, it’s just that…we’re not exactly the people to ask for, um, _facial beauty standards_.”

Wade fiddled with his tuba a bit. “Shit man. I joined because I thought it would get the girls.”

Ned snorted. Wade craned his neck to look back at him. He quickly busied himself with his triangle.

“No offense, but nobody in this room is getting any.” Peter said.

Wade’s eyes widened. He did a quick scan of the room. “Fuck you’re right,” he said, like Peter had proposed the theory of gravitation or something. And Peter felt slightly offended. Sure, he wasn’t the best-looking guy in school, but he did have a few girlfriends back in the day. Like…two. One wasn’t a proper girlfriend, not really, but he did hold hands with her, and he kissed the other, so that counted. Of course, that was before he found out he was gay, but his point still stood.

He was brought out of his reverie by Ned saying, “To be fair, you’re not exactly a looker yourself.” And before both of them could have a heart attack, Wade laughed. Then feigned mock surprise.

“Excuse you. I am pretty as fuck.”

Maybe he wasn’t all that bad.

“Yeah yeah,” Peter said. “You’re prettier than Ryan Gosling. Happy now?”

Wade shook his head. “No, not Ryan Gosling. Nobody’s prettier than him, that man is the perfect male specimen. Which makes sense, since he’s Canadian. I’m prettier than that other Ryan, though. Ryan Reynolds. I’m way hotter.” He flexed his muscles and wiggled his eyebrows. He looked ridiculous.

Peter rolled his eyes.

“Sweetheart, you know you do that way too often? Like, I think it’s hot, but I’m just worried your eyes will get stuck mid-roll. Then — I don’t know — you’ll get powers like Cyclops or something.”

Peter was wholly aware he was blushing because _Wade Wilson had just called him hot and what the actual fuck_. And to make matters worse, Ned was kicking the back of his chair. Like there was the possibility he didn’t hear what Wade had said. “How the fuck would you know about Cyclops?” It was a desperate attempt at a change in subject, and thoroughly obvious. He cringed internally.

He grinned. “Calm down, Parker. I was joking. About you being hot. I mean, you’re okay. But you’re not _that_ hot. And what, are nerds the only people who can like the X-Men?”

Peter tried to get his heartbeat back to a regular pace.

“Nerds are the only one who actually _know_ about the X-Men.” Ned argued. Peter thanked God that he seemed to have moved past the “hot-or-not” thing. Because the X-Men was far more important to Ned than Peter’s (non-existent) love life.

Wade gasped. “That’s very offensive. To X-Men lovers who don’t classify themselves as nerds. Like me.”

“Classification itself _is_ offensive.” Peter responded.

He grinned some more. “Kind of. But anyway. X-Men. They’re awesome. Therefore, knowledge about the awesome cannot be exclusive to nerds. It’s for everyone. Like Gordon Ramsay. And Queen. And me.”

Peter scoffed. “Really. What’s Magneto’s actual name?”

“Erik Lensherr,” Wade said promptly.

Peter and Ned tried not to look surprised-slash-impressed.

“You’re impressed, aren’t you?” Wade smirked.

Damn it.

“I’m shocked you’re letting your inner nerd shine.” Ned told him.

“I’m letting my inner love for all things awesome shine. And Magneto is awesome. The X-Men as a unit are awesome. Except Mystique. Like, I love J-Law, but Mystique isn’t even that good. Just goes and fucks everything up. She gives shapeshifters a bad name.”

“I’m not even sure why she’s still around. Doesn’t everyone hate her or something? Erik can’t stand her, and neither can Charles.”

Wade gasped, as if he’d been struck by some epiphany. “That’s _it_ , Parker. Goddamn, how did we miss it? _That’s_ why she’s still relevant. The indescribable power of having blue boobies.” He snapped his fingers.

He snorted.

“Yeah, well Charles and Erik are desperately in love.”

Ned groaned.

Wade laughed. “What?”

Peter shrugged. “Homoerotic tension much?”

“I have never seen anybody use the word ‘homoerotic’ seriously before.”

“Welcome to Peter Parker,” Ned said. “He’s convinced Charles and Erik are in love. Them, and just about every other male leads.”

“Objection,” Peter said.

Wade sniggered. “Well, I see where you’re coming from. So sustained, I guess.”

“Who made you the judge?” Ned snapped.

“I’m the only sane one here,” Wade suggested.

“ _Wow_.” Ned said.

“Objection.” Peter bit out.

“Sustained,” Ned said.

“Overruled,” Wade bit back, but he was smiling.

Thinking back on it, band practice really could have gone worse, Peter decided. Wade turned out to be…pretty cool. Even after Ned managed to get past the Star Wars prequels thing (Wade’s argument was that the new Star Wars movie was absolute shit and so by contrast, any canon Star Wars movie was good in comparison; Ned had objected, Peter had abstained). And then there was that bizarre… _thing_ that happened right after band practice.

They were packing up after band practice, and placing bets on whether or not Cindy would murder Michelle. Peter had put $5 on attempted murder because Michelle was at least a head taller than Cindy, Wade had put $10 on successful murder because Cindy had “really fucking sharp fingernails”, and Ned had abstained because he, despite being opinionated, was quote-unquote “really fucking broke” and had to leave right away before his mom committed successful murder.

And then _it_ happened.

“So,” Wade said as he lugged his tuba out of the way. “What’s your number, Parker?”

Peter stared.

“What?”

“You know. Your number. The digits that I put into my phone to call or text you with?”

“I know what my _number_ is.”

“Well thank fuck for that.”

“I didn’t mean — Oh for God’s sake. Why would I — Why would you want — oh _Christ_.”

Peter grabbed Wade’s phone from his outstretched hand and quickly typed his number in.

He grinned. “Thanks babe.”

“Don’t call me babe.” Peter hissed.

“Okay. You prefer honey?”

Peter contemplated throwing his clarinet at his head.

Wade caught his expression and held up his hands. “Okay, okay. Calm down, Pete. Is Pete okay? Okay.”

He shrugged on his backpack. “Wanna walk home together?”

Peter froze.

Home. Dad. Stark Towers.

_Fuck._

“Uh. No. Not really.”

Wade raised his eyebrows. “Wow. Don’t have to ice me out all of a sudden.”

Peter closed his eyes.

“It’s not that, it’s just — my dad’s really…private.”

“Jeez.” Wade led the way out of the room without bothering to look back. “What brand of crazy is your dad?”

Peter looked at the ceiling.

“I think you can read all about that in the tabloids.”

“What?” He sounded genuinely confused.

He closed his eyes. He didn’t want to see Wade’s expression. He’d seen it on enough people before: the moment their views of him changed, the immediate glow in their eyes. “My dad’s Tony Stark.”

It would’ve been explanation enough for anyone else on earth. But apparently not Wade Wilson.

“You say that like I should know who he is. Is he an actor? Should I pretend to be impressed?”

“He’s head of Stark Industries.”

“Oh.” Peter could hear the realization hit Wade. “Oh wow.”

And he could hear the wheels turning, the moment of realization.

Something was moving in his stomach, writhing and pulling and waiting.

Then.

“Do you think he’ll give me a free StarkPhone if I tell him you’re my boyfriend?”

And despite himself, Peter laughed.

“He’ll probably punch you first.”

“Don’t worry, babe. I got a black belt.”

“Somehow, I don’t think you knocking my dad out would grant you a perfect welcome into the family.”

“Damn. You’re right. Do you think I should let _him_ knock _me_ out?”

“You’re idiotic.”

So on the train ride back home — Wade had insisted on accompanying him onto the station before leaving and making him promise that he wouldn’t ever actually have to pay money should he lose any future bets — despite everything, Peter managed to smile for what felt like the first time in months.


End file.
